Post War Sketch
by Vitreum
Summary: The war has been over for eight months and to Harry's sadness and confusion, Ginny still isn't speaking to him.


It was breakfast as usual at the Burrow. With the exception that Harry was wearing a Ministry-issue Auror uniform, and Ron had a name tag that read "WWW"; and that it was December, and they were the only two boys still living at the Burrow; and that Ron was in a foul mood because Hermione preferred to study rather than meet up with him in Hogsemeade that day; it was very much like every breakfast every Hogwarts summer of Harry's life. The exceptions could be added to: Harry himself was in a rotten mood—one he'd been in for a long time—although he hid it well. Sometimes he had difficulty placing the source of his despondency; the war had been done and over eights months past, he found his work with Magical Law Enforcement everything he'd thought it would be, and everyone around him had managed to get on with their lives. But other times, on mornings like these especially, he focused with burning clarity on the one thing he wish he could change, the one thing, in fact, that had been better before the war. He missed his closeness to Ginny, and it was impossible to forget about her for as long as he lived at the Burrow. But thinking like that did nobody any good.

Just as a bleary-eyed Harry knocked over his tea for second time that morning, a brown owl swooped in through the window and skidded along the sopping table.

"That'll be Ginny's owl," Molly said, while with one hand she wordlessly banished Harry's spill. But instead of hopping towards Molly with the letter, it came to a stop in front of Harry. It held out its leg. Harry wasn't sure who was more surprised to see the little "H.P." inscribed in Ginny's distinctive hand on the front of the envelope. Ron froze with his mouth open in mid-bite and Molly dropped three sausages on the floor, and Harry himself felt as if his heart had been replaced with a fluttering snitch. Harry looked up sharply at Ron and Molly and they promptly resumed their activities, Ron shoveling food and Molly flipping sausages, acting for all the world as though nothing had happened. Harry untied the letter.

He couldn't open it here. Molly was glancing slyly at him and Ron was trying so hard to look nonchalant he had even picked up the Daily Prophet and was now consulting it upside down. Harry knew his face would betray whatever was in the letter, and that he had an avid audience. He shoved the letter into his pocket.

"I'll be heading off, then."

"Oh, Harry, so soon?" Molly glanced at the clock. "It's only half-past. You still have time for another sausage." Her eyes scanned the tabletop for the letter.

"Er, well, it doesn't hurt to get in early."

"Right. And you can catch up on some reading with the extra time." Her eyes were kind, and Harry blushed.

The department was crawling to a start when Harry arrived, although it was always slower on Saturdays. He plunked down into a desk piled high with paperwork. The letter was burning in his pocket. He tore it open with tingling fingers. A faint flowery scent tantalized him and he felt a physical pain in his chest as he remembered again how much he missed her.

_Harry—_

_ We have a Hogsmeade weekend here. I reckon this is too short notice, but I'd like to see you if you can make it._

_ Ginny_

And that was all. A mere two sentences after eight months of stony silence. But a mere two sentences had Harry's heart hammering in his chest. Without stopping to consider, Harry strode to Robards's office and rapped on the door.

"Come in," a gravelly voice said. Robards was slouched comfortably at his desk with a cup of black coffee in his hand.

"I'd like the day off," Harry said without preamble.

Robards looked at Harry as though he were asking for the Auror uniform to be changed to a turquoise tutu. "You'd like a day off?" he repeated incredulously.

The condescension in Robards's tone made Harry's blood boil. In actuality, Harry did so little wrong at work that Robards would pounce on the slightest misdemeanor like a hungry dog. He was not a leader so much as a herder, nipping at his underlings' heels with intimidation and humiliation. "I haven't missed a day of work since I started," Harry said heatedly. "I work weekends and I work evenings too when I have to. I put in seventy hours per week. So yes, I'd like the day off."

"No." Robards smiled into his cup of coffee. There were so few times that he got to say that word to The-Boy-Who-Lived.

It was as if Harry could see a physical door swing shut, barring him from stepping out into what might be the most perfect day since he didn't even know when. Ginny wanted to see _him._

"Fine. I resign." Harry shrugged out of his Auror issue cloak and dumped it on Robards's desk. "I'll be back later for my things."

Harry was out the door before Robards could stop him. He was already jabbing the button on the elevator when he heard an irate "_Potter!_" echoing down the corridor.

Harry apparated into Hogsmeade. It was snowing lightly, and it was beautiful with the brilliant morning light and the banks of snow heaped up snugly around the shops, but Harry hardly noticed. He had apparated into the thick of a milling crowd of Hogwarts students and all he noticed was the hair color of the girls around him. Brunette, brunette, blonde…He heard people call his name as he walked by, but the voices weren't Ginny's and he didn't stop. Harry's head swiveled as he ploughed through the crowd. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of long, flaming hair. Ginny vanished for a moment as a thick of Christmas shoppers passed between them, and when she reappeared again Harry was not twenty feet away from her.

"Ginny," he called, breathlessly. She whipped around, startled.

"Harry!" She sounded surprised and for a moment Harry's heart plummeted into his boots, but then she smiled and his heart soared.

They stood there dumbly for a moment as Harry drank in the sight of her. Ginny drew near. "You made it," she said, her breath creating a white cloud in front of her pink face.

"Yes," he said stupidly.

Ginny's eyes roamed over Harry. "Where in Merlin's name is your cloak?"

Harry realized he must look mad. He wasn't wearing anything to protect him against the cold—not even a scarf or gloves—and truthfully it was quite cold out. "Er, I left it at work," he said, not dishonestly.

Ginny was looking at him with bemusement. "Well, let's get out of the cold, then." She led the way to Madam Rosmerta's, which was the closest place where they could get something warm to drink. The bell jingled as they entered the cozy pub and the ritual silence that accompanied The-Boy-Who-Lived's arrival anywhere pervaded the room for half a minute. But soon Ginny and Harry were nestled away in a back booth and the bustle and noise returned to normal. "Drinks on the house," Rosmerta was saying to her barmaid with a jerk of her head towards Harry and Ginny.

Their eyes flickered between the tabletop, their hands, and each others eyes.

"Thank you for coming," Ginny said suddenly.

"Thank you for your, er, owl…" Harry trailed off lamely. He was saved by the distraction of two steaming mugs of mulled butterbeer being set in front of them by the barmaid.

"I wanted to talk," Ginny said again, once the barmaid was out of earshot.

Harry swallowed. She had no idea how badly he wanted to listen. Ginny's hand was an inch from his own and he wondered what would happen if he held it. He was so lost in this thought that he almost missed the next thing she said.

"I'm sorry," she was saying. Harry's head jerked up.

"What?" he said.

"I said I'm sorry." Ginny's cheeks were flushed. "I'm sorry."

Harry stared stupidly at her.

"I'm sorry for pushing you away." Her face was stoic. That was the thing about Ginny—when she apologized, she did it bravely and without pleading. She never pleaded. "I'm sorry I was so angry with you. You did nothing to deserve it."

Harry had never questioned her anger at him. He hadn't understood it, but then there were a lot of things Harry didn't understand. "Oh," was all he said.

Ginny began to worry the handle of her mug with a nail. "Is that—is that all you're going to say?" she asked. She folded her hands in front of her and looked at him with an expression halfway between sadness and frustration. "I've missed you," she said, and Harry's heart leaped. "I wanted to talk to you for ages, but, it's just…after not talking for so long, it was hard to start again, and the longer we went without talking the harder it got. Hermione says I'm just as bad as Ron."

"You're worse," Harry blurted out. He said it with a shy smile, but Ginny was gazing at her hands and did not look up. Her shoulders stiffened and Harry wished he could drown himself in his own mug of butterbeer.

"I am," she murmured.

There was another desperate pause while Harry groped for something, anything, to say. The whole conversation was not turning out how he had hoped and every time he opened his mouth led to utter catastrophe.

With horror Harry noticed a telltale glitteriness to Ginny's eyes. But she looked up at him, bravely, boldly, determined as always to face the thing head on. "You don't—you don't feel the same way anymore, do you? I've ruined everything."

Harry reached out suddenly and grabbed both of Ginny's hands. He looked into her face and was about to tell her everything—about the hollow ache in his chest every time he heard her name mentioned, how thunderstruck he had been to receive her letter—but just then the door to the pub slammed open and a very disgruntled Kingsley Shacklebolt burst in. With a sinking feeling, Harry realized that he hadn't removed the locator charm all Aurors carried.

Shacklebolt zeroed in on Harry almost immediately.

"Potter," he boomed. He didn't sound angry, thankfully, but he was all business and Harry saw that. He slowly pulled his hands away from Ginny's.

Shacklebolt was by their table now and peering at the two of them. "Robards told me we lost one of our key Aurors today. What do you have to say about that?"

Ginny was glancing between the two men in confusion. "I resigned," Harry ground out.

"That's what he said. I want to know why," Shacklebolt said, jabbing the tabletop with his finger.

Harry stood up and faced the Head Auror and former Minister of Magic unflinchingly. He was furious to have had his moment with Ginny taken away from him. "It's my own bloody business why, and I can resign if I want to."

The tables near their booth were silent and many pairs of eyes were trained on the two men.

Shacklebolt stepped back, startled at Harry's outburst. "Of course you can," he said placatingly. "But I want to know what I can do to get you back. Why did you resign?"

Harry was beginning to feel a bit sheepish. He had just shouted down his superior in front of an entire pub and here was Shacklebolt begging him to come back.

"I—I asked for the day off, and Robards said 'no.'"

Shacklebolt raised one eyebrow. "That's all?"

Harry flushed. "I've never asked for a day off. Not once."

"I didn't believe Robards when he told me," Shacklebolt was muttering. His eyes narrowed on Ginny, as if seeing her for the first time. "You resigned from a department that you'd be running by the time you're thirty, to go on a date?" he asked.

Harry's cheeks burned and he could feel Ginny's gaze on him. He hadn't intended for her to know any of this. He clenched his fists and didn't say anything.

Shacklebolt gazed at Harry. "My office, nine o'clock, Monday morning. Take the rest of the weekend off, but you and I need to talk." With that, Shacklebolt turned and left the pub.

The adrenaline rush was seeping away from him and Harry began to feel foolish. He was still standing, facing the spot where his boss had stood.

"Harry?"

Harry turned and faced Ginny.

"You quit your Auror job because I wanted to see you?" Ginny asked.

"No." Somehow he'd hoped that what Kingsley had said would be glossed over. "I quit it because _I_ wanted to see _you_," he said mulishly. He stiffly lowered himself to his seat. But suddenly Ginny's flowery scent overwhelmed him, because she was an inch away from him with both hands grabbing his shirtfront. She kissed him soundly on the lips. As she pulled away Harry reached out blindly to grab at her and sent her butterbeer crashing to the floor. Someone whistled at them. But Harry didn't care, and he kissed Ginny again and again, the both of them awkwardly leaning over the table and Ginny's butterbeer trickling over the stone floor.

Harry flooed into the Burrow living room in time for supper. It was already dark out, and the familiar scents and sounds Mrs. Weasley's dinner preparations beckoned to him. He smiled broadly, or more broadly, since he felt he hadn't stopped smiling really since the morning.

"Oi, mate, nice scarf," Ron said, peering over the top of a shop catalogue from his sprawling position on the sofa. Harry glanced down at the fuzzy pink and red scarf that Ginny had wrapped around his neck out of pity when he insisted on walking her back to the Hogwarts gates.

"Er, thanks." He said, kicking off his shoes on the hearth. He was aware of a traitorous blush creeping across his cheeks.

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen. She popped her head around the door frame of the kitchen. "Arthur told me he had no idea where you'd got to! Did you have to run an errand after work?" Her face was arranged in a warm smile, but her eyes were shark-like.

"No," he mumbled, while extricating himself from the scarf. It had been wound around several times and became looped around itself as he tried to remove it.

"Here—" Mrs. Weasley helpfully unwound the scarf—"I just thought, you know, maybe there was something you had to do. People you had to see. Somebody—" Suddenly Mrs. Weasley stopped and stared at the garment in her hands. Beaming a watery smile, she commanded Ron to set the table, and for some reason kissed Harry on the cheek. Wiping sloppily at her eyes with the scarf, she returned to the kitchen to finish her dinner preparations.

During dinner, Mrs. Weasley fairly glowed as she passed the dinner rolls and spooned heaps on mashed potatoes onto "her boys'" plates, and sent knowing smiles Harry's way. Harry did his best to deflect them by focusing on the meal at hand, and from the corner of his eye he registered that Mr. Weasley was bemused by his wife's strange and beneficent mood.

Following the scent of sausages into the kitchen the next morning, Harry found Mrs. Weasley sitting at the kitchen table fastening the shrunken parcel of Ginny's scarf to Pigwideon's tiny leg.

"I thought we may as well send it back to Ginny, dear," she smiled. "It is winter."

Ron had entered the kitchen in time to catch this exchange, and Harry found himself subject to his gimlet eye. Harry sat down and did his best to avoid Ron's gaze as he buttered his toast.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley said suddenly from her position at the stove. "You're not even dressed. You'll be late."

"Day off," Harry said around a mouthful of toast.

"Oh." Mrs. Weasley suddenly looked delighted. "Will you be getting Sundays off from now on?" She slid some sausages onto his plate.

"Um, not sure."

Arthur had been sitting at the head of the table for all of this. "They work you too hard," he said. "I've said it a million times."

"Well," Harry said diplomatically, "I suppose I work myself too hard. I think…I think I might try to…take more days off." Harry was of course thinking of all the Hogsmeade weekends between now and June. Perhaps he could catch the Quidditch matches as well…

Mrs. Weasley was beaming for some reason. Ron's gaze was still trained on Harry with the greatest suspicion, but Harry shrugged it off in annoyance. Arthur rustled his newspaper and leaned back in his chair, languidly folding and unfolding the paper into a convenient position. Harry glanced up, and promptly felt a piece of sausage fall out of his open mouth.

On the back page of the Daily Prophet, in the society section, was a black and white moving photograph of Harry and Ginny. Cocooned in one another's arms and with faces snapped together as tight as puzzle pieces, they stood silhouetted against the massive stone and wrought iron gate that opened upon the impressive view of a toy-sized Hogwarts. All around, thick snowflakes fell lazily like the inside of a Muggle snow globe; it was absurdly picturesque. That fuzzy, striped scarf was, of course, around Harry's neck. A strangled sound from Ron's direction indicated that Harry was not the only one who had noticed.

'_The-Boy-Who-Loved?'_ read the simpering subtitle. There was, thank Merlin, no accompanying article. But Harry's stomach roiled at the thought of either Mr. or Mrs. Weasley seeing the photo, never mind the entirety of wizarding Britain reading the bloody caption.

"Dad," Ron was saying. The hair on the back of Harry's neck went up.

"Ron?"

"I—uh, I'm just going to steal the front page," he said, and leaning forward, he snatched it out of Mr. Weasley's grasp. He quickly folded over the page so that the photo didn't show, and made a big production of reading about the increased levies on imported cauldrons.

_You owe me_, he mouthed at Harry, and they grinned at each other.

Harry and Arthur arrived at the Ministry on Monday together, as they usually did. But Harry noticed with unease the humorous looks being cast his way. The Security wizard at the elevator smirked at him and Arthur's secretary, who slid into the elevator with them last minute, winked broadly at him.

"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter," she greeted. There was a slight emphasis on Harry's name. Harry flushed deeply and Arthur cast a bemused look his way.

They elevator stopped to pick up another wizard on the way down—Harry recognized a bloke from Magical Law Enforcement that he'd worked with once or twice. He, too, grinned broadly, and lazily glanced from Harry, to Mr. Weasley, to Anna. Anna grinned and again glanced at Harry.

"Nice weekend, Potter?" he asked as he slapped the button for the next floor down.

Several floors later they came to Mr. Weasley's department. Anna stepped out of the elevator and sent one last pert smile Harry's way as she slipped from view around the corner, and Harry blushed darkly. Mr. Weasley observed this, and for some reason he remained with Harry in the elevator.

There was an awkward silence as the elevator descended. Finally Mr. Weasley spoke up.

"Anna's…Anna's a nice girl," he said. He cleared his throat.

"Wha—what?" Harry asked, startled.

"She's…well, it's nice to see you, er, taking an interest in someone."

Harry wished the floor would swallow him already. The elevator doors opened onto Harry's floor and he bolted through without so much as a backwards glance at Arthur. Catcalls met his ears as he strode through the department towards Shacklebolt's office. Harry steeled himself for his encounter. He squared his shoulders before rapping on the closed door.

On day one Harry and Robards tacitly found themselves on opposite sides of an invisible no-man's-land.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was managed by the firm and decisive hand of Kingsley Shacklebolt, but to make the department more self-accountable and efficient, it was divided into four units—or Quarters, as they were called—each of which was comprised of a team of Aurors, office personnel, and Auror Head. Shacklebolt himself was an Auror Head. The Quarters shared a network of rooms, and in fact shared case files and workers, but the format engendered a favorable spirit of competition and was good for morale. In fact, it reminded Harry very much of the Hogwarts houses.

It was on Harry's first day that he had the privilege of meeting the four Auror Heads in Shacklebolt's office. It was customary for the Heads to handpick from the newcomers based on their feel for the best interests of their team. Apart from Shacklebolt, Harry was already familiar with one other Head: Annabelle Jones had the distinction of being the only Auror who did not go by her last name. Annabelle: such a flouncy, girlish name. But Annabelle was as cutthroat as any seasoned Auror, with a gimlet eye and lips as thin as a ribbon, and when her juniors pronounced her name it was often with reverence, frequently with horror, and always with respect. Harry had hoped to make it onto the team of either Shacklebolt or Annabelle.

Alas, the meeting was aborted almost before it began. The three men and one woman had barely exchanged small talk with Harry, when one of them—Hector, the youngest at forty years and already worse for wear with an eye-patch and a stump where his thumb should be—yawned.

"I second that, Hector," Robards said genially. "Coffee, Potter?"

Harry's brow furrowed for a second as he worked out the request—or was it a command? He noticed that Shacklebolt was suddenly uneasy. The other two seemed curious. Harry had about two seconds to wonder if the request was harmless, antagonistic, or a test of humility. But whatever it was, the request had an inflating effect on Harry; all at once, unbidden, he filled up with a sense of everything he had accomplished—everything that had caused Shacklebolt to invite him to be here in the first place. Sitting in that office on the doorstep of the career he had never thought he'd live long enough to pursue, he suddenly felt far too grown up and self-assured to ever be made to feel insignificant again. He was over-qualified.

Harry was resolute as a rock and without blinking he replied. "Thank you for the offer, but I don't drink coffee."

Shacklebolt adopted a poker face. The witch sniggered, Hector leaned back with a gleeful smile, and Robards glared death. The rest was history. Soon the whole conversation was being repeated throughout the department. Harry would never fully appreciate just how much good it did to gain the respect and admiration of his peers. Shacklebolt was, however, a strict commander who knew exactly how to make an example, and he handed Harry over to Robards.

"You know why I had to assign you to Robards," Shacklebolt was saying to Harry that Monday morning.

Harry smiled at the memory. "I do," he said. "I would have made the same decision."

Kingsley Shacklebolt rapped the edge of his desk with his wedding ring and considered Harry thoughtfully. "Is that so?"

"I couldn't be given a pass after what I said. At least, not after half the department had heard about it. You had to endorse Robards's authority."

"More like the whole department, and yes, I had to back Robards. But there was more to it than that."  
Harry threaded his fingers together. Talking to Shacklebolt was often like how talking to Dumbledore had been. He often left their meetings feeling a bit wiser, a bit older. "I know," he said. "You would have murdered me socially and politically if you had given me special treatment."

Shacklebolt smiled in that begrudging way that he had. "You've figured that part out a lot quicker than most of my Aurors. We have to work as a team, watch each other's backs. We can't afford to let resentment and jealousies compromise our judgment on the field. I'd say that about half my work is catching bad guys, and the other half is spanking everyone and sorting them into their corner."

"Well, I consider myself duly spanked."

Shacklebolt burst into a throaty laugh. "You know, Potter, Hector wants you, and so does Annabelle. But I think I'll keep you for myself."

By lunchtime Harry had completely transferred all of his belongings from Robards's corner, to an identical desk in Shacklebolt's corner. Robards watched all of this with a dour glare, but Harry didn't stop to wonder why Robards should be so disgruntled to have him taken off his hands. Meanwhile, some of his colleagues seemed genuinely sad to see him go.

"There's nothing to live for now," one clerk groaned dramatically. At Harry's confused look, he elaborated. "Getting through the past four months has been bearable only because of the hope of catching you sass Robards again."

Harry left early—or rather, at the time most people left work—and stumbled upon Mr. Weasley in the atrium about to floo back to the Burrow. Mr. Weasley saw Harry and waited for him to catch up, but a sinking feeling hit Harry's midsection as he drew closer to the red-haired man. There was an odd smile on the older man's face—part indulgent, part disbelieving. He didn't say a word when Harry stopped in front of him.

"Mr. Weasley?" Harry said weakly.

Mr. Weasley merely shook his head, as if to himself. "I suppose I was entirely off the mark about Anna," he said.

Harry froze.

"I suppose I shouldn't have believed that Molly was imagining a grand romance between you and my daughter. I think she's had it planned out since Ron's first year. Did you really storm out on your superior, or was that an exaggeration?"

Harry let out a groan.

"Don't despair," he said with a chuckle. "If it makes you feel any better, I haven't actually seen the photo yet."

But he did eventually—and Mrs. Weasley too—as was evidenced by a carefully cut out clipping of the photo nestled in a most important drawer of family documents, birth certificates, and OWL results, which Harry stumbled upon several weeks later. And in spite of the embarrassment of it all, Harry couldn't help but feel a little content to find a copy of that picture preserved.


End file.
